


disconnect

by limerental



Series: Witcher Ficletvember 2020 [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: In the aftermath, he stretches into languid complacency, warmed like putty in her hands. It confounds her, the heated realization that in those moments and otherwise, he will let her do anything at all to him.Ficletvember Day 1 - prompt: yen and geralt’s shared bodily disconnect (contains anal fingering with hints of dubious consent)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Witcher Ficletvember 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012020
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	disconnect

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr [@limerental](http://limerental.tumblr.com)

In the aftermath, he stretches into languid complaceny, warmed like putty in her hands. It confounds her, the heated realization that in those moments and otherwise, he will let her do anything at all to him. 

She pinches and he twitches and grunts, her palm soothing his bare flank like an animal. She presses and he rolls for her, easy and meek, presenting the scarred plane of his back. She sits astride his thighs and digs the claw of her fingernails down the dip of his spine, the swell of his backside. If she demanded, would he–

He shifts his hips against the intrusion of her fingers, her soft fingerpads breaching the rim of him. Vulnerable. She knows he is freshly-bathed and scrubbed pink or else she would not touch him here. He lives like an animal on the road, unused to comforts, wary of those she offers. He grumbles and protests and sighs but in the end, goes supple in her hands.

The Witcher is not a handsome man. No more handsome than any other man is like this, exposed and shivering under her touch. What could possibly be handsome about these private, ugly places? She tucks her thumb into the opening of his body, and he gives to her. He shapes his muscles around her, face pressed into the mattress, the back of his neck gone pink through the milky curtain of his hair. 

He does not protest her touch, as he never protests any touch of her hand. She does not ask him if it is alright, because she knows he will not tell the truth of what he wants and relent anyway. Give to her.

Pitiable thing. A shape that is barely his, made for other’s purposes.

It is then that it shocks down the frets of her straightened spine. How alike they are in this.

His body is a mechanism, worn at the cogs and slipping. Even in her fresh, pristine shape, she understands it. Body as tool. Body as a threat. She bears her new unflinching beauty like a weapon, perfect breasts and smooth expanse of skin held open before her enemies like a challenge. I dare you to strike a blow. I dare you to attempt it.

A skin-shaped costume, stretched over their bones.

(Is she still that girl, huddled in the darkness of the sow barn, chattering her teeth through a winter’s night? Can she ever truly leave the beast that inhabited that body behind?)

Who is he underneath? Who is he?

She dips her fingers into the stretch of his body, open to meet her, broad, ugly shoulders quivering in supplication, in acceptance, in something as close to desire as he will allow himself.


End file.
